Home
by tomato-greens
Summary: Crowley moves in. AC, adorableness, and overuse of italics.


**Disclaimer: **Sadly, _Good Omens _does not belong to me.

**Notes: **Overuse of italics. I couldn't resist. For the community fanfic100. Prompt 090: Home.

--

Thing is, Crowley's infatuated.

_Everyone _knows it, even Ned the Homeless Man, whose only connection to the demon in question is the occasional sighting whilst he's hanging around a certain area of Soho. Admittedly, he isn't actually homeless; he's an obscenely rich businessman who likes to see how the other half lives--but just because he's ridiculous doesn't mean he's unobservant.

And although Crowley's not one for close friendships, or real friendships at all (humans flash by so _quickly_ that by the time he feels he knows someone, they're nearly gone; and anyway, he's never been a masochist, so why seek pain that _really _shouldn't be feeling, anyway?), even the generally innocent passersby can tell. It might have been the smile, it might have been the jaunty walk. Then again, it may well have been the fact that his fingers were usually twined with another's.

The secret, doting glance he threw the other one when he thought no one was looking, though of course they _were_, was no small clue either.

The--man, as it were, he was firmly attached to noticed his entirely too enigmatic smile and decided it was about time he got rid of it.

"Mmph," Crowley said.

--

Thing is, Aziraphale's infatuated.

He's rather more expressive about it than Crowley is; a kiss on the cheek, an arm about the shoulders, small things that the demon is Too Cool to initiate but, nevertheless, appreciates. The two tall gentlemen, one with dark glasses, slim and altogether too sinuous, one fair and clad in tweed and altogether too English, get looks; curious, admiring, occasionally disapproving (after all, they are often in Soho, where the onlookers are interest_ing_ rather than interest_ed_).

They make a striking couple. Even Ned the Homeless Man thinks so, and the drab suits of the business world do not encourage a great sense of color. There's something about the two of them, walking side by side down a busy city street, that creates a sense of completeness: the kind of thing that no one notices until it's there--or not there, as the case may be. Every time they pass him and the blond one surreptitiously slips him a fiver, the dark one rolls his eyes--or at least Ned thinks he does; the sunglasses make it rather difficult to tell.

After the money accumulates long enough, Ned cleans himself up and enters--Mr. Fell?--Mr. Fell's bookshop. He doesn't have time to read, usually, but the antique books look nice in the study. And yet, somehow, when he's finally managed to convince Mr. Fell to sell him something--honestly, one would think the man didn't want to make a living!--he always seems to find the time to at least skim through it. Funniest thing, that.

--

One day, if you happened to pass a certain bench in St. James Park, you might have seen two men--neither young nor old, or perhaps both all at once; a black suit quietly contrasting with and complementing the tweed one next to it. If you'd hung around much longer, one would have thrown you a suspicious look and one would have smiled and you'd suddenly remember a pressing appointment you were already late for, halfway across the city.

"Really, Crowley," said Aziraphale disapprovingly as the third observer suddenly scurried away. "And it's always so inconvenient for them, too."

"Serves 'em right, skulking about like that," said Crowley.

Aziraphale's mouth twitched. "Couldn't you say," he said, "they were lurking?"

"_No_," replied Crowley, frowning. "They're _skulking_. There's a fine line, you know. Anyone can _skulk_. It takes an expert to lurk properly."

"Ah," said Aziraphale. He was merely smiling because it was a sunny day and he'd just had a glass or two of wine and he was sitting next to the one he loved. He was not suppressing a laugh. He was _not._

Crowley cleared his throat. "So. About the plants."

"Hm?"

"I was thinking. Where we should put them, I mean."

Aziraphale tapped his chin because it seemed the thing to do. "I'm not sure," he said. "Of course I can clear some of the books in the extra room now that it's--not being used And I'm sure I can clear off the windowsills. You do have window boxes, right?"

"Mm," Crowley agreed. He watched Aziraphale's finger for several more seconds before grabbing it. "Stop. It isn't actually conducive to thinking. And it's annoying."

The angel responded by wrapping the rest of his fingers around Crowley's hand. "As you command, o lord," he said, grin widening.

"Oh, be quiet," said Crowley, but he was smiling too.

--

The plants found their new home easier to deal with than the old. Oh, The Fear of Crowley was inflicted upon them weekly, as usual, but The Kind Words of Aziraphale, with nicer(1) mister, came not only in its wake but before and after it as well. And they felt the decor(2) suited their needs far better than the minimalism of Crowley's flat.

Crowley never admitted that the plants looked better--_maybe a bit_ was as far as his pride would allow--but he soon began to watch Aziraphale make his daily rounds of the former guest room, petting and coaxing and praising as he went.

And lo, _the_ plants were happy, and the demon _became_ mellow, and the angel smiled and discreetly used the paper towels he kept in the kitchen after the demon watered _the_ plants.

---

(1)in all meanings of the word. Crowley's aim tended to lose any particular accuracy when he got excited.

(2)or lack thereof.

_Fin_


End file.
